


The Prism Umbra

by polymorphic



Series: The Errant Souls Archive [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Bisexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Convoluted Cosmology, Disabled Character, Established Relationship, Experimental Style, Extended Metaphors, F/M, Found Family, Gritty, Healing, Intense, Love, Metaphysics, Mutual Pining, Original Additional Mythology, Other: See Story Notes, POV Characters are NOT the Dovahkiin, Prequel, Romance, Sexual Content, Spiritual, Spiritual Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:55:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24767329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polymorphic/pseuds/polymorphic
Summary: Immortals are known for their love of making bargains, especially the tricksy-trappy kind, which rarely culminate into anything more than afternoon bloodsport. But there also exists a much quieter, less flashy sort of transaction, one which lies far outside the notice of a good and proper hero. Rumors throughout Tamriel abound: Agnostic temples whose priests are renowned shade-slips—mystics uniquely suited to mediating transactions between the planes. Sometimes the currencies exchanged involve tourism of the flesh, but information is always the septim of choice. Laurel is high priestess at one such temple, hidden away in the southernmost reaches of the Rift, where she has served the denizens of Aetherius, Oblivion, Skyrim, and Cyrodiil for as long as she can remember.Trouble brews in the mountains as whispers echo across the planes. Dragons of legend are rising, and the Dragonborn is nowhere to be found. What begins as a favor to her Altmer lover—a covert Blade torn between duty and devotion—concludes with their involvement in an unlikely bunch, none of whom areat allinterested in being good and proper heroes.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Blades Character, Teldryn Sero/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Errant Souls Archive [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744585
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story began as a deeply personal, albeit separate, addition to the Skyrim world-state of Paraparadigm's Always Read the Fine Print. It now functions as an introduction of characters who appear near the conclusion of that title, and who will remain in the sequel going forward. Because this work is inspired by, and develops in parallel with, ARFP, it is a reworking/expansion/play on some aspects of TES lore/meta. It is not a retelling of the game plot, and it leans heavily towards original content. It does not have to be read in tandem with the longfics, although I highly recommend them.
> 
> Prism includes a lot of metaphor and allegory, especially during Laurel's POVs. Accordingly, you may encounter allusive references to ableism, historical abuse, and/or historical sexual violence. Sex is graphic, but not explicit, and is always consensual.
> 
> This story is for mature audiences only (as the rating on this fic indicates). Content warnings include: graphic depictions of violence; fictional racism; fictional ableism; and other elements that may not be appropriate for younger audiences. Individual chapters are tagged in the notes when specifics are necessary. You will note the "gritty" label in the official story tags: although this work is ultimately about healing, please do not proceed unless you are able to read about the subjects listed above. 
> 
> Note: Content has been edited and rearranged to reflect this title's final purpose and audience.
> 
>   
>   
> Current POV + small time skip
> 
>   
> POV switch, current time
> 
>   
> POV switch + small time skip  
> 

“You’ve returned to trade.”

The words sank into Valendiil’s wooden heart and quivered there, vibrating like arrows. He knew his lover wouldn’t blame him, just as he knew she would accept his request. He knew, if anything, his reliance on her purpose and talents would please her. He knew she would simply be happy to see him, just as he understood that time didn’t pass the same way for her, that mere seconds could torture her while seasons spend in an instant. He knew these things about her, and they filled him with guilt.

He came by his guilt naturally. If ever there was a creature born to be punished, it was he, the Cyrodiilic son of an Altmer Blade and a mother who viewed him as nothing more than civic duty. Tyermaillin loved him enough for two, but his last words had been an apology, the worst kind of curse: one filled with hope, faith, affection, and regret. Val had revealed all of this to her long ago, yet the priestess listened patiently, with eyes focused upon his. Her blinking was slow and strangely timed, signifying her interest; she always watched for the tiniest details when he spoke. He hated it. He wanted to kiss her, to devour her, to bury himself within her until she shook in his arms, to hold her while she regained her strength, to sleep—to truly, deeply sleep—with her warmth and scent reunited with his. He wished she would ask for this, and he was wildly grateful she didn’t. If she had, he would gladly delay his purpose at Temple Traiectus, and suffer.

They had never declared their love, not to mortals nor divines, not once in the past three decades. Somehow it accumulated between them, jagged little moments ground to sand by time, trickling through their lives grain by grain, barely enough at once to keep him sane. But it _was_ enough, and there he was, besides himself while using her.

And she was beautiful.

It was difficult to focus by the time he was done relaying his request, and he sighed with relief when she invited the honored sisters into her sanctum. He kept one eye fixed on her form as she worked, allowing her familiar shape and movements to soothe his heart. The elderly ones helped, too; they had become his mothers long ago, and he smiled as they fussed and clucked, poring over each new scar. He joked and flattered them, earning a smack from some and a titter from the rest, letting their guileless affection buoy his strength.

One by one, the sisters glanced over their shoulders, and a moment later, Laurel over hers. Their eyes met in the middle, and she bowed her head. They rose, somehow limber for their age, lacking pain and stiffness, their movements fluid and practiced with the recitation of years. One retrieved the bowl in Laurel’s hand, and the others waited while she pulled herself to the center of the room. Her silks glided along the polished floor, her scooting frictionless and smooth. They sat around her to complete the circle, together numbering eight, with herself north on the compass rose.

She met his gaze and smiled, eyes creasing with encouragement. He drifted closer, unable to stay away, and hovered nearby, unable to be of use. An honored sister took pity and slid him a pillow, allowing him to watch as they bent over the floor and began painting their runes.

Shade-slip mystics were a curious lot, and so were their rituals. As he understood it, mortals needed to make fewer preparations in order to interact with minor Aedra—something about Mundus, itself, being an Aedric creation. Daedra, on the other hand, had to co-opt scripts and words to transcribe themselves from the chaos they call Oblivion. That his task required him to bargain with such a being made him less than happy, but…

His mouth twisted wryly. 

It wasn’t like the Aedra were guaranteed to be any better. If they were, his life would be less about vigilance against dragons, and more about—

 _Go on, say it_ , he mocked himself. 

He could never quite manage it.

When the runes were complete, Laurel held up her palms and turned them inward. The sisters dipped their fingers into the paint and drew matching symbols on the backs of her hands, wet gold glinting in the morning light. She resettled herself comfortably, looked at him, and tilted her head.

“Your inquiry—?”

His face softened reflexively. She always intoned a space when she addressed him directly, a little placeholder in lieu of his name. He’d kept it secret in fear of the Thalmor, never giving her the option to risk it. Something else she’d forgiven him for.

“Your mind wanders, beloved; focus, then speak.” Her sonorous voice was distant, yet firm. “Immortals sip upon the glee of imprecision, its intoxicant more potent than wine.”

The chafe between ardor and duty overwhelmed him, and for a moment he was tempted to tease her with a flippant commentary on ‘immortals,’ including several graphic descriptions of where they could shove their cosmic cocks. His lips were almost parted when her brow rose a fraction, halting the words in his throat.

He cleared them out.

“Someone with a powerful voice is collecting souls in Skyrim. I want to know their name.”

Laurel’s eyes had lost their outward focus by the time he finished speaking. A violet light gathered at the tips of her fingers and spilled down, coating her hands like liquid gloves. The runes on her skin remained opaque, negatives contrasting sharply in the glow, reflecting nothing, emitting even less. The honored sisters rose and glided out of the room. Valendiil took his place on the southern point of the compass, then settled onto a cushion with a tuck of his legs. She lowered her luminescent palms to the circle and ignited its runes with purplish flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a very short chapter to function as a character test while Para and I plotted. ;) The next may be longer, but experimental style is experimental, and because this work is a prelude, it will not be terribly long once finished. 
> 
> Next chapter is from Laurel's point of view. Don't be too discouraged if her initial style puts you off; it is a voice reserved for her dreams, dreamlike states of consciousness (daydreams or high emotions), and scrying. Her voice clarifies when she is more grounded. :)


	2. 2

Sunlight streams through her window, illuminating cushions scattered across the marble floor. The illusion of them pleases her, her gold-tasseled lilies afloat a mottled pond. She poises comfortably among them, elegant and mismatched, buoyant, like a temple swan moored in a lake of silk brocade. Restless motes stir the light, caught between the forces of earth and sky— unable to fall, unable to fly. On the surface, they do not appear to suffer.

She knows light to be the most parasitic force in the universe, refracting greedily within translucence, reflecting maliciously from impermeable polish. In these ways, its contagion leaps from one host to another, only dwindling in accordance with each imperfection marring the surface it attempts to breed. Coexistence without promulgation is possible, but one must become still and opaque, absorbent and flawed. Crumpled, like thickest, darkest velvet.

It’s this quality which lures them from their cosmic ennui, this which enables the exchange. She offers a silken reversal of roles, a blindfold knotted by compliant hands. They can feel her, but they cannot see her, and so lust after the pleasure of transience, of sensory impairment. This quality, which they cannot emulate, has become the source of her power, her wealth, and her chains.

The supplicant approaching her plinth is new. He begins well, but his eyes grow discontent before he speaks. They follow the outline of her body, naked within sheer pearlescent robes, then move to the curve of her breasts, thinly veiled. They snag there, on flesh roused from the lingering draft of his entrance, on pigment protruding from silk. He flushes hotly, erect. Her heathered gaze sweeps to his groin and he shifts, uncomfortable within the same existence he imposes upon others. She sends him away.

Honored sisters cluck and fuss, frowns wrinkled in disgust. They bow and call for someone else. Her eyes wander to the window where swallows spin and dive, turning pests into meals, airs into toys. The next supplicants arrive. She has not learned to fly.

They recline next to her, naked, like any who would trade. They perform magnanimously, aware of the reasons why. They are soft and kind, polite. Wild and gamey outside of bloom, like columbine and alkanet. They lean in, allowing her to trace the labyrinthine dyes upon their skin. She smiles as they blush, lips curved in a carmine crescent moon. They tease her, dipping and bobbing like robins, beckoning her to dance. Pleased by their request, she declines and calls for her flute. Their eyes fall upon her disused legs and shift. Imagined pain mirrors between them, encased and self-nesting. They view her reflection within their extrinsic ideals and mourn. Forgotten, she sends them away.

The day’s supplicants brush her former life, a muddy palette used for painting the dredge. Purity kept her well-fed back then, building her up with hollow bread. She would speak, and speak, and speak for them to understand, only to starve when they miscomprehend. They would wait, and wait, and wait until she was almost done eating, then send her away.

She dreams of him, of when they first met. Purity pillages her temple, tallying her deficits while stealing her stock. He steps among them, his blade refracting the light. His helm spins slowly, struck away from the crown. His mouth moves while it falls, forming words she can no longer speak. Fate seeps from his eyes, sliding down blood-spattered cheeks. Each tear dries before reaching his chin; all of them are empty, failing even their doom. Their existence terrifies her. She shakes.

He ties a blindfold and bathes her cuts, hands moving slowly from miles away. He builds her a nest of furs, bringing blankets, broth, and bread. He searches for her sisters, carrying back where they fled. He sits in her window while the dust motes glitter, caught between the forces of earth and sky, unable to fall, unable to fly. Fate seeps from her eyes as she watches, sliding down long-sunken cheeks. Each tear dries before reaching her chin; all of them are empty, failing even their doom. Their existence comforts him. She shakes.

They couple in the moonlight, softly waning the night. He grants horizons when she asks for strata, burying her deeply, shearing her down. Her name issues from his lips, shields raised against his accursed own. She holds him as their tides ebb and flow, keels listing for shore; he spins his compass and bears leeward to tort, steeling her shelter against unsullied wind.

Names waver and evaporate in the pre-dawn light, glistening like dewdrops on webs of fate. Names follow needles like thread, sewing where she cannot follow. They snag and tear, entangling the souls they pierce. 

_Laurel._ It is not her names which she remembers, but their frays. _Petal_ . They treasure her awls like oysters, pearls tucked inside their shells. _High Priestess._ Her vessel is a container only when filled. _Shade-Slip._ This is how she walks. _Prism Umbra._ This is how she flies.

She stirs restlessly, eschewing her coverlet for the morning chill. Her lovers banished their lives from her nightmares long ago, and she must send them away.

The honored sisters enter her sanctum early. They seem happy, trilling their comfort and chirping their words. They preen, pecking clean the yards of her dream, and her heart rises as they sing in the dawn. They take turns braiding flowers into her hair, laughing and bickering as their smiles wrinkle and fold. She kisses their cheeks while they scheme, reveling in their suspicious charm.

The room feels serene when they leave, calm. She scoots to the gold-tasseled lilies, returning her illusions to their place on the floor. She sponges the hours from her skin, sluicing away their slough. She chooses her sheerest silk, drapes her most pearlescent pearls. She slides back to her plinth, wakeless on efflorescent ponds. She poises comfortably, elegant and mismatched, priestess once more.

Soon, the world fills with silver, curtains, and cold. Raindrops fall and glisten, bent little jewels traversing the light. They stream past her window, plummeting headlong toward their fate. There, they glide and transform: some to return, and some to absorb. Some will abide aeons, awaiting extraction from the dark, for their purpose flowing freely, for their presence reborn.

She turns from her window and finds him watching her fondly, an oasis admiring its own mirage. She is parched to the sight, cracked and hard. His deluge runs over her surface, salty and grey; floodwater fills her eyes as he pours out her name.

A petal clings to his skin, fresh from the bath, scarlet to well-faded gold. She meets his gaze where red intersects, heather to autumnal verdure. His lips curve at her wish, and he pads among the lilies, a cat along the shore. She meets his skin like a butterfly, alighting it with lips and teeth. He reaches for her hair as tremors split and fork, his arousal brushing her cheek. Her strands slip through his fingers, then coil at her side. They droop from his affection like fruit-laden vines, each falling slowly before their reunion on the floor. She turns her head to kiss his palm, smelling steel, rosin, and rose.

His hand curls with pleasure, and she becomes fascinated by the love in his eyes, by her own reflection. In some seasons, it burns wild, and in some, it glows. Too often they're forced to simmer in the heat while rejecting the light, to waver in the haze of late-summer steppe, to linger ineffectually where land synthesizes sky. His eyes smolder through it all, embers self-seeding and self-sustaining, driven by their lives, by lashing wind.

Calloused fingers slide to her chin as he teases her, lifting her gaze from the knowing curve of his mouth. She smiles into his eyes and incites him slowly, capsizing his self-control. His palm splays down her back as he kisses her, eyes adrift in haze. He holds her body tight, tighter, arms pressing within and without, pressing until her bones creak, pressing until he’s forced to mask their strength with restraint.

Their breath calms as she pulls away, and rain-cleansed air pours into the space between them. It chills and floods her skin, rising until she floats. His fingers affix to her arms like mooring lines, cast into a sea of dormant range.

Her voice pitches softly, unpainfully aware. “You've returned to trade.”

His eyes fill with an apology from a life they do not have. She opens herself to the warmth of it, basking in its radiance: not quite peace, not quite regret. She burns like a hearth within the furnace of his light, his flames hers to diffuse and absorb.

His hand reaches for her fingers, then cradles their warmth to his cheek. He speaks of dragon sightings in Skyrim, and of his duty. He explains the existence of the Blades thoroughly, unnecessarily, sheathing himself within a scabbard of the past. Purity drains his life of family and religion, perfection incinerating his pride to ash. Dragon wings fan the purpose of his faith, and he comes seeking a name.

She leans forward to kiss his brow. His eyes drift shut, and she reaches for the bell, inviting the honored sisters inside. They enter swiftly, happy smiles shining through solemn deport. Her brow lofts as they titter, fully self-aware. He greets them while they gather and fuss, mothers doting upon their wayward son.

She prepares the pigment while he entertains them. Powdered mica, metallic oxides, glow dust and pearls, hanging moss, essence of rose. Pressed linseed oil, amber and clear. She grinds and mixes them precisely, ink for her cast.

_What is to be known is little, and what is to be trusted is nothing._

The cautionary words bubble from memory, spilling into her thoughts like artesian dye. They’ll come for the contrast of her vessel, backlit and marred. They’ll hunger for her opacity, desperate to be trapped, for displacement just shy of full. She’ll refract until they disperse, until effectual conversants arrive.

_〰 You need not the paint, fleshling._

Sometimes they arrive before she’s aware, chiming patiently to bend her ear. This one smiles lazily: an expression to be felt, unseen. It stretches slowly, cautiously, unfolding to her senses. She finds it perched in her casement, poised between worlds. She closes the window upon its will and stirs, mixing her dye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of fun with these two, especially contrasting Val with Laurel (and not just because I get to type out phrases like "cosmic cocks").


	3. 3

It lingers outside her window, awaiting her return. She lifts the curtains when she’s done, allowing it to peek inside. It discerns her question and unfurls with glee: a book, once opened, always reading back. It offers a name for trade, but not for captivity without submission. It would deal for locations, instead. It has two names in its possession, but not two places, and would strike a bargain for the balance.

Her eyes shift back to the Blade. It is a simple trade, more modest than most. Simplicity is uncommon, but not unheard of, for even daedra occasionally feel the press of time. It is a price they pay, a fee incurred from dealing in the languages of mortals. None are immune to the binding of words. The law is immutable, equiponderate to chaos. It is terrifying in its reciprocity, a blessing and curse used to order Oblivion itself. They co-opt and mold, controlling what they can, and what they can’t…

She turns her sight inward. The daedroth shows her an Altmer man, tall and thin, lamplight flickering on burnished skin, scrawling into a ledger late at night. His name is—

“Arlen.” The runes flicker and dance, sympathetic with the daedroth’s excitement, confirming her read. “This one wishes to know precisely where it can find Arlen. For that, it will trade the name you seek.”

The Blade leans back, startled.

“Arlen? The bo—”

“Attend your words, beloved, and abide their rules. In dealings with daedra, nothing is free.”

The Blade clenches his jaw and thinks for a moment. She and the conversant wait patiently for his conclusion; ere then, it is his right to rephrase.

“You are searching for Arlen, Thalmor, a clerk?”

_〰 That is the one. Summon me through._

Her eyes close as she increases the magicka to her runes, widening their window to the other side. When it opens, she speaks. “Xivilai.”

The daedroth bursts into the circle. Purplish flames wreathe around its transparent self, tendrils of light giving it shape. They lick and rise, outlining a humanoid form, tall and muscular, naked and horned. It twists to look, then settles back, seething with resentment.

_〰 And my flesh, fleshling?_

The Blade tenses as her eyes sharpen in warning, and his muscles cord with her deadly tone.

“Flesh has not entered this bargain, daedroth—not yours, nor the donning of mine. Will you abandon the trade?”

It cackles with delight, then drifts in her direction. It finds her by the void in its senses, the umbra in its sight. It lifts a finger to trace her cheek, basking in its inability, unable to see or touch inside.

She does not feel what cannot reach.

 _〰 Then it’s true, heh heh. Completely inert._

Her eyes swing in its direction, an expression to be felt, unseeing. The flames shiver and pop, thrilling in the threat of her invisible blade.

_〰 Ohh! Heh heh heh. Mind the edges, poppet. I will trade._

Her mouth twists in distaste. Xivilai are cleverer than most, and many have decided that respect has a unilateral nature: it needs only go in one direction, something to be consumed and never paid. This one seems unattached to a prince, making its presence both easier and more difficult to manage—weights which come in equal measures, equalizing risk with reward.

The Blade settles back onto his cushion. Her mouth curves at his cautious movements, relishing his comfits for her heart. Armed or naked, there is not much that her lover could do against a disembodied daedroth, but whatever it was, he would do it without considering the cost. Never before has she adored such a worrisome trait, and never before such a worrying man. 

Her eyes close as they await her decision. The xivilai remains wisely still—not from consideration, but self-preservation. It wishes to finalize the trade without violence, and it considers banishment a threat. From whence has it come, wishing to avoid embattled return? 

And her lover…

The Blade would not have sought the temple if his need were anything less than urgent. She has no desire to burn with Nirn from the inside out, nor to see the words of Mundus formed into ghastly weapons, blunt and obscene. Language is to be cherished, a gift from the gods. It was shaped by mortals and adapted to their plane, capable of all its beauty and horrors; it is not to be wielded by the likes of a world-eating subjugator. Lingual causality, as the psijics have termed it, is not to be reduced to a sword, nor simplified as a bludgeon in wroth. 

Mundus is _her_ plane. Hers and many others’—upstarts of Akatosh be damned. If they wish a divide, then they shall have it, and she’ll assist anyone who exorcises them as exoplanar trash.

The flames spit and pale, transcribing her ire. The daedroth squirms uncomfortably, while the Blade furrows his brow. The Sybil’s face emerges from within her agitation: dark, comforting, and warm. Her beauty is timeless, the intensity of her eyes perfectly balanced by soft pastel robes. Her wit is sharp, and her intelligence sharper; her keen understanding would be uncanny if its existence were any less soothing. Laurel promised her that she would avoid such shifty sands, especially with purity laying the hillsides bare, and she received the same promise in return, excepting Dibella’s will. They had met as lovers and parted as sharers of fate—different from the Blade, perhaps, but no less cherished.

_Forgive me, Gabinia. The risk is fair._

“Xivilai, you would trade the name sought by this supplicant. In return, you require the precise location of Arlen.”

_〰 Yes, begin already._

“Supplicant, you would trade the precise location of Arlen. In return, you require the name of someone with a powerful voice who is collecting souls in Skyrim.”

The Blade hesitates, then agrees. She bows her head.

“When one bell rings, another one chimes; the bargain is struck. Daedroth, make your exchange.”

_〰 Ooo how formal, heheh. Makes me quiver. Yes yes, stop glaring, poppet. The runes burn when you’re angry._

It shows her a giant of a man, bear-like, curly-haired and red, broad of form and pleasant of face, the true nature of his strength hidden by a—

“Silver-Tongue. A someone you seek, beloved, is called Undnar Silver-Tongue. He seems to be a bard.”

She notes the last item as unexpected and glances at the Blade. It was an addition of courtesy and convenience, the daedroth hoping for the same. It is no longer her place to dissuade or encourage, however, and she waits for his side of the exchange.

He clears his throat. “Arlen—” his eyes flick to hers, “is a bounty keeper, a Thalmor clerk managing the assignment and payment of bounties. He was stationed in Riften the last I heard.”

The daedroth stirs with satisfaction.

_〰 My thanks to the supplicant._

Laurel nods once more in ritual formality. “The bells have chimed, and the bargain—”

_〰 Now, wait a moment. The supplicant seems at a loss; could there be a problem with finding his wayward bard?_

She tilts her head. The Blade looks as though he wants to curse. His forehead is wrinkled, his brows are drawn, and the corners of his mouth have twisted with consternation.

“Is it true—?” she asks. He shifts uncomfortably when he hears the intonation which acts as his name. “Is Undnar Silver-Tongue unattached to a patron?”

“It’s true,” he grates, refusing to meet her eyes. “I’ve never heard him, but I’ve heard _of_ him. He travels constantly; some believe him involved with a mysterious benefactor, who has him performing errands instead of the arts.”

 _〰 Thought so, heh heh. Tell you what, poppet. I’ll trade his location for an offering from_ you _._

It isn’t necessary for her to reply out loud, but she does so anyway, her chosen method of asserting herself in the world. Power has no affect on standing in her eyes; she is this being’s equal, and takes care to remind it. “The addendum?”

_〰 You shall unbind me in return._

“You wish to wander the surface of Nirn, unbound, without flesh?”

_〰 Yes. Do we have an accord?_

“No. If I do this, you will provide me with the location, plus the magicka to confirm it.”

The xivilai bristles until her runes flare with the effort of restraining it.

_〰 You impugn my intent, girl!_

“Spare me,” she counters coolly. Her sarcasm earns a performative outburst, which she promptly ignores. “You have seen this supplicant’s urgency, and it is one you do not share. You also realize that if you give us a location, it will be the last one known, and for the information to have worth commensurate with its cost, I must first confirm where Undnar is _currently_. Whose intent has been impugned, daedroth?”

The runes return to their former intensity as it chortles, and its words arrive almost contrite. Almost.

_〰 My apologies, poppet. I agree to your terms._

She looks to the Blade, whose expression is hard and bare. His eyes tighten as he meets her gaze, filled with determination, imploration, and regret. If the being he is charged to seek—this Dragonborn—will face the world-eater on behalf of Nirn, then this risk, too, seems fair.

“In addendum: Daedroth, you would offer Undnar’s location as it is currently known to you, along with the magicka required to ascertain his exact whereabouts. In return, I shall release you to wander the surface of Nirn without flesh.”

 _〰 Agreed._

“When one bell chimes, another one rings; the addendum is struck.”

She draws herself into the circle of runes, and the flames twine and curl, accommodating her mortal shape. The daedroth stirs at her lack of presence and shifts, enveloping her body, awaiting ingress to her form.

Shade-slip mystics are not simply hollow vessels; rather they act as a wick, or a sponge. Unbound souls are drawn toward the incremental void she creates within herself, and the souls are absorbed gently, evenly, as water into a dry cloth. She neither mixes with them, nor they with her, no more than the sea becomes the sand it saturates upon the shore. The exchange is gradual and eventually simultaneous; as they slip into her body, she slips out.

_〰 Come here, poppet._

Daedra cannot recognize such a passive art for what it is, nor can they imagine it; they think they enter by their own volition, simply because she gives them a choice. Lesser daedra, content in their equilibrium, are far more polite, some of them even delighting in coexistence. They exchange information for a feast or for pleasure, some for games, and some for familial warmth. One simply spends the day arranging her hair into tiny braids; it decorates each strand with darling asters, and when she returns to her head, she finds it draped with efflorescent curtains in place of knee-length hair.

She appreciates that one’s taste in women.

“Laurel?”

This daedroth will strain her capacity and leave her with an ache, but it draws more magicka, and she’ll be able to explore further than she would with the others. Returning without success is unlikely, for with this one, the risk lies elsewhere.

“See that I'm kept warm.”

“Laurel, wait—!”

She draws the veil, for she cannot feel what will never reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter brings more worldbuilding, shade-slipping, and bit of scrying. The latter presents with more of Laurel's dream voice...until she gets back and finds an agitated, pent-up Val. 😏 I'm excited to finally gather the threads needed to weave these characters with ARFP.


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for brief mention of sustenance hunting (that means critters died to be eaten).

She stands once she’s disembodied—not because she misses it, but because she retains precious few memories of her childhood, and walking hand-in-hand with her mother is one of them. They’d steal together down sun-dappled paths, towered over by trees and sky, singing and chatting while checking their snares for foxes and hares. She remembers the sick feeling she got whenever she saw them dead of stress or asphyxiation, harmless little bodies which had met a violent end.

“Darling, at least thank them while you cry.”

She wanted nothing to do with it, but they were too often hungry, and on flush days her mother would lay a fire to cook one on the trail. The scent of roasting meat always managed to overwhelm her nausea and shame, and she devoured the adorable creatures with no more thought than a wolf would spare a fawn.

The Blade’s expression tightens into a blank, rigid stare. She glances at her body and finds her face twisted into a taunting leer, the likes of which she would never wear. She may be demanding when it comes to seduction, but never imperious—a lean-forward come-hitherer, not a lean-back. It’s unfortunate she hadn’t the time to warn him about xivilai and their often-perverse mind games, but she has as much faith in her lover’s practical wisdom as she did her mother’s, which is a gift she'll never share.

_Godspeed, Laurel._

She cannot discern if his words are spoken out loud, but physical matters no longer bear; she hears them just as clearly as those he whispers low in her ear. She smiles, and so does he, his hair stirring in her wake as she shifts from the room.

The world turns beneath her feet, and it is not the stars which blur as her soul speeds beneath, but the sky in which they glow. Luminescent speckles prick through the mirrored borealis, stark and clear, while the aurora drips across the horizon, its colors running together as though Kyne has hurled her palette.

Markarth is a long way for wheels to travel, and longer still for boots and hooves. It takes her three steps to arrive, a feat which she rarely performs; of the daedra she hosts, most can sustain a single step, and of the minor aedra she’s hosted, at most two. The more distant she is, the more magicka is needed to keep her soul anchored, and more importantly, her flesh alive.

She looks back toward the Rift. She can see it there, the speck of her body burning bright with the xivilai’s magicka inside, barely faded. She pauses to do some quick arithmetic. The large supply of energy gives her more leeway than she’s used to, but if her search prolongs, the excess would barely equal the task. Her soul moves under its own power, but the demands made upon her magicka will vary according to the people she scries. This means—Ah, she notes dryly. Rather than becoming distracted by things shiny and unordinary, she must remain focused. A shame, because there's always something shiny in Markarth. 

She is experienced enough to avoid the temptation of exploring during a shade-slip—probably—thanks to the urgency of the Blade’s task, yes, but also its risk. She forces herself to remember a few stories the late High Priest Shade-slip told about mystics who succumbed to their wonder. Those who exhaust either source of magicka experience a prolonged double-death: empty bodies lingering for weeks, needing the vigilance of a constant guard, lest their flesh be donned like robes and worn to town by anyone who desired it. When she was young, she thought he must have been exaggerating for the lesson’s sake, but then she saw it happen with her own eyes. The first fatality of her tenure happened the other way around—the acolyte’s body died first, leaving her animus to wander the halls of Traiectus for months, stuck and forlorn, until the Temple of Arkay could despatch a priest to assist it onward.

It is fortunate, then, that no matter where she goes, or what lies between, her possessed body will remain a fixed point on her sensory map, its luminosity advising her of when she must return, or, barring that, of when she must die.

Her gaze shifts to the repurposed Dwemer city. She hasn’t seen much of it with her fleshly eyes; the myriad of switchback stairs and unsecured causeways were impossible to navigate during her stay. The daughters of Dibella didn’t allow her time to feel trapped, however, nor any cause for complaint; Gabinia discretely cleared the garden whenever the walls closed in, and together they would speak of many things, huddled against the fresh cold air. Laurel flickers, overwhelmed with nostalgia and yearning for the Sybil’s lovely voice, long missed. Her soul is nowhere to be seen.

Neither is Undnar’s—not as the daedroth showed her—but sometimes their perception of a soul diverges from a mortal’s own, and she maneuvers to the Silver-Blood Inn for a closer look. The innkeeper dozes in a corner, exhausted from the morning rush. She wafts to his frame as he snores, then extends a finger to his hand. A tendril of his soul floats up and curls around it, signaling his consent. She receives it softly, sifting through his memories gently, as fingers sift through sand. If he is the type to recount his dreams, he will remember himself speaking with a wayward spirit, happily, he judges, on the buxom side.

She carefully dislodges him and spins northeast. She was right to bargain; Undnar had left Markarth for Solitude weeks ago. The trail leads her from there to Falkreath, from Falkreath to Helgen, and from Helgen to Riverwood.

The world streaks to a halt as she steps toe-first onto the hamlet’s cobblestone path. It’s clear from the noise that the Sleeping Giant Inn is packed full, but when she enters, Undnar is nowhere to be seen.

A Bosmer hunches over his mug in the corner, resigned and weary, deftly avoiding drunken elbows and the knees of taller men. His soul fluctuates, first dim, then bright, telltale oscillations of an agitated, introspective state. She extends a finger to his hand, but his soul remains still, too distracted to notice her well-mannered presence. She observes him sympathetically for a moment, then moves on. Everyone else is making merry, their souls far too nestled to answer their doors. The innkeeper, too, is dashing about, her assistants reveling in their flush of gold.

Laurel turns her gaze, and the world shifts, landing her outside.

_Is that where you met Undnar?_

She tilts her head. That casual tone wraps a little too tightly around the speaker’s inconspicuous words, and the words, themselves, are strangely weighted; the combined effect snags Laurel’s attention like an airborne brick. She follows it around the corner of the inn, and there finds a small Breton. The Breton, whose femininity becomes evident on the second glance, balances cross-legged on a trestle, ignoring most—but not all—of their discomfort in front of a Dunmer man.

The man’s mouth forms words Laurel cannot perceive, then a deflection, fondly spoken.

_Nineteen points to go. For you._

Laurel smiles and drifts closer. Their souls are terribly battered, yet they share a familiar, sympathetic glow, one sure to dim while not in each other’s presence, one reserved for mutual kinship on roughened paths.

 _Remember, Vera, love, the only theories we ever have of each other are those we have of ourselves._

Her head tilts in the opposite direction. Now who was that?

_It matters little whether they are correct._

If Laurel had a brow, it would be furrowed halfway to her lips. That voice, too, was coming from the Breton, but it was also distinctly...not.

She settles onto the bench between the companions, first peering closely at the Breton, then leaning back. They have, without a doubt, the siltiest and most diminutive soul Laurel has ever seen...in a person, anyway. She briefly considers the possibility of slipshod reanimation, but a haphazard collection of soul fragments would not form the kinship synchrony—she turns to squint at the Dunmer—even if the kinsoul has first been hollowed and chained.

But how is this person not dead?

_〰 One third, fleshling. Leave me a little, won’t you?_

Laurel’s emotions flatten. She learns something new from each deal, and this time it’s to include a xivilai’s silence when bartering for magicka. She follows the companions into the inn without bothering to reply.

The Breton beds down in the common room, with nothing but a worn-out fur to negotiate the space between their bones and the knobby floor. They doze off faster than Laurel could hope, and the convenience she finds within their painful exhaustion sits, as her Blade would say, easy as a bear on a bed of tacks. She brushes away the pang of guilt and waits a few minutes before drifting closer, stretching her fingers toward the Breton’s hand.

_You are light before a prism. Will you refract?_

A tendril floats upward. It wafts toward her finger and wavers tentatively, unsure of how to connect. It has a strange texture—slurry, like thickened broth—and she bends to examine it closely. This new archetype, if that’s what it is, resembles a pretty moth she saw as a child. Its papery wings were painted with a mosaic of beautiful colors, muted and velveteen. The creature fluttered, and flew, and attended its business all night, then came for a rest on her knee. She lifted a finger to stroke it gently, softly, using her barest, most weightless of touches, as enamored as a child could be. The moth never flew again.

She needn’t make the same mistake twice. She withdraws her finger and rotates her hand, exposing the flat of her palm. She makes herself as still as a windowsill, a willow bud, a lampshade, an evening bloom.

_You are light before a prism. Will you refract?_

The tendril unfurls, then wafts closer to rest on the palm of her hand. She mutes her excitement carefully, remaining diplomatic in the face of something new. The Breton’s connection is fluid and watery, flowing across the prism like a sluice down a mirror. Laurel refracts, doing her best to make sense of the light passing through streaming cascades, its energy pre-distorted by gods-know-what.

I still don’t know what she’s talking about, refracting—sounds like the Unworshipped. No, she has none of the right vibes, which means none of the wrong ones. I agree; the least we could do is offer a cup of tea. New information wouldn’t hurt. ...Jules, you’re such a nerd. That’s why you love me. Pointing that out will cost you a match. As if you wouldn’t have won anyway. Yeah, but now the victory will be moral. Thank you for admitting the others weren’t. Hush you two, say hello.

Laurel reels with confusion. She quells her panic and focuses outward; the tendril of soul remains quiet upon her palm, appearing no worse for wear. No worse than it already did.

She stares at it.

_〰 One quarter, fleshling._

She flickers against the extraneous voices, which buzz at her mind like multicolored insects. Where is the Breton?

 _I don’t know._ Laurel’s inner voice reverberates with the Breton’s own, and she braces for another deluge, but it does not come. She begins a careful sift, and the Breton’s gaze alights over her shoulder, seeming just as curious about their own whereabouts as their guest. Together, their perspectives begin to magnetize and merge, blending until difference no longer matters, until it exists as nothing more than a philosophical construct, meaningless without form. Laurel finds this strange at first, but not unpleasant—not with this soul, anyway.

 _Will she be OK like this?_ The voices rise briefly, and she braces, but they remain orderly this time, single-file.

_I think so. Incompatible though, imperfect bridge._

_Shhh. Let Vera speak._

The memories proceed, not as illustrations in a book, but as those in a dream. The Breton—? stands alone on a cliff, gazing expectantly below. She looks to the north, but sees to the south, her sight turned by disheveled selves. Laurel follows her gaze, then allows her senses to bend and shift between the planes. 

It’s a place she doesn’t know, hollow, devoid of reasons to stay. The woman staggers and cuts her hair in the driving rain, bent double to shore. She touches her face, feeling for the answer to questions she’s unwilling to ask. The strands carry away, scattering self to the storm; they blow about, buffeted like birds on the violent sea. Without turning her head, she watches as they sink, and walks to where they can never float—

 _Away._ The word reverberates from Laurel’s being, returning her view to the cliff. The Breton rises to her tiptoes. She shields her gaze against the setting sun, eyes tight, mouth tighter, undecided, torn. She blinks as ice fills her lungs. Strong hands grasp her arms, hauling her from river to shore. She shivers and thaws, warmed by his flames. He heeds her quills, wary of barbs, and she needles him until finally, he breathes.

_Do you consider yourself sentient?_

The pinched, pompous face dissects her presence, quill held ready to transcribe. He speaks politely, distantly, well-mannered with machines. He wears his confidence ugly—subjective—faithful in his object’s objective words. The worry she feels is the Breton’s, the disgust, her own. A nephew brings his apologies, Arkay, and wine.

_The Rift is quite lovely this time of year._

Gabinia’s memory pours into her soul, and she overflows with joy. She captures the sudden feelings quickly, deftly, tilting them back across her surface before they can stain her host’s. The Breton flickers, amused, seeming relieved at her informal fluster. Laurel thrills as the lady smiles, dimples deep, trading hidden meanings with her new friend. 

_If you find yourself headed that way, perhaps we could share the road again._

She wants to slow, to reverse, to pore over the Sybil’s appearance, whose stress seems to have equaled her cheer. The Breton offers to linger, curious and cautiously fond, but Laurel urges her onward. She cannot trade words with this strange soul, and she has no memory of Undnar to show for tell, nor any related emotion aside from haste. She must wait for him to occur.

_Another promise of dessert, is it?_

The world gutters in dim torchlight, revealing slime-covered stones. Dank air tears through her lungs, in and out, in and out, ragged breaths bellowing with grit and fear. Purity’s soldiers slaver in the dark, chasing them all the way to their end. She bares her teeth in defiance, refusing the hunger of untainted beasts. She turns to the Dunmer; his blood-red eyes twist with grief, unable to watch, unable to refuse.

_A name for songs, if I may say so myself, a name to soothe and delight the ear._

Laurel forces the memories to a stop. The Breton’s soul tenses but allows her to look, seeming to relish the chance to rant. The Dunmer’s arm tightens about her middle, his protective heat tangible and sharp. She can almost see the Nord’s loathsome face as he speaks. He’s a giant of a man, bear-like, curly-haired and red, broad of form, pleasant of face, the true nature of his strength hidden by a—

_Silver-Tongue._

Laurel reels with shock, trying to maintain her refraction amidst the sudden distortion of memories, loathing, and fear. The Breton’s soul is diminutive and silty, but it has proven clever; learning from her guest, she shoves memories along one after the other, using them to build a cogent message.

_What do you make of our captain, Vera, love?_

_Mad Nord. Demented Bear._

_You think I haven’t seen this kind of shit before?_

_Run._

There’s a massive wrench, and the connection ruptures. Images spin and whirl, twirling faster and faster, light and darkness bending together, twisting, turning, untangling, weaving unraveled the planes for the re-summoning of her soul. The Breton balks and panics, attempting to retract, tearing her fissures into cracks. Laurel stretches and contorts, reaching to counteract the strain, but the tension proves impossible, denying her ability to cleanly extract. She yanks forward a memory and presses it into the tear, then lets go, slamming down the veil on the bit of herself stretching from her soul.

It seems that her pain is the only thanks she can manage before being sucked into the void—truly, she notes, a terrible guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this was a very unusual shade-slip, and not just because of Vera's otherwordly soul. It was so exciting to have them meet, kind of! 
> 
> I might not be able to answer all of them (I'll refuse outright spoilers until the Errant Souls Archive collection is complete), but if you have any questions, feel free to ask in the comments or on tumblr, https://paramorphic-zuul-jar.tumblr.com/ask, specifying for Polymorphic.


	5. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter contains NSFW sexual content. Most of it is still allusive, but because of Val's point of view, it's not quite as abstract as in previous chapters. There are also brief references to past violence, assault, and mental illness. Please read accordingly. ♥

Laurel wakes to the sound of a savage beating. She wonders which grotesque plane she’s been summoned to, and who would dare, considering the likelies with the idle curiosity of one who is too lethargic to panic while they die. A few intolerable moments pass before she realizes that the violent sound is her own desperate, arrhythmic heart.

Her eyelids feel heavy— as does her mind—but she opens them anyway. The runefire wavers, weak and pale, echoing her depleted state. She boggles at its remaining life, blinking thickly at the spluttering phenomenon until the pressure on her hands congeals into pain. Her eyes shift downward, seeking the cause of this fresh discomfort. Blurry, weather-beaten fingers resolve uncommonly slow, forcing her to puzzle over their callouses and scars, their metallic hues. The veins are strangely familiar, as are the tendons, which flex taut with strain.

“...Laurel.” 

She closes her eyes. 

Names are blown, like glass. The molten filament which slipped from his mouth had hardened the moment it touched the air, crystalizing into a tangle sure to shatter whenever it falls. She suspects the brittle sound of preceding a quarrel, but he remains silent while guiding his magicka into her depleted own. It feels pointed, somehow, and eager to be spent—a peculiarity of Altmer-kind, whose energies are easily converted to purpose. This one has always preferred the mundane arts to the arcane, and his transfer remains as clumsy as it had been all those years ago.

“You are a warrior,” she remarks blandly, “frog-marching silk through a needle.”

The unnecessary comment leeches a smile to his face. “You’ve never complained about it being rough before.”

Her mouth curves at the sight, a reflex she’s unable to tame. “Why would I complain? The end justifies the means.”

It is the wrong thing to say. He sees her trajectory and leaps in front of it, anger roiling across his face like a distant storm. She braces, but his ire withdraws as quickly as it appears, leaving a rumbling gruffness in its wake. He uncorks a vivid blue potion and shoves it in her direction.

“Here.” It's not so much a word as a grunt, a puff of air roughened by its forceful expulsion. She downs the bitter draught, then bends over the basin and retches as her soul re-seats itself, diplomatically ignoring the parallels while he holds her hair.

_〰 Better, poppet?_

The xivilai’s mocking voice jolts her senses into presence. 

_〰 Compliments on your fastidious dealing, fleshling; you have reminded me how tedious entrails can be. I am no longer cross about this lack of body._

She wipes her mouth and accepts a drink of water from the Blade’s own cup. He hands her a slice of peppered jerky—rubbery stuff meant for travel, but its salty spices are pungent enough to overpower the taste of half-digested porridge—and she sucks on it until it’s soft enough to chew. The daedroth gloats quietly, content to watch, ignored, her unseemly display of mortality. 

It takes her an hour to recover, which is longer than usual, but not as long as she feared. The runes have resumed their bright violet burn, once more under her own power, just as steady as before. The xivilai, too, seems no worse for wear, indicating that she could have made it back to her body without a dangerous re-summoning of her soul.

_〰 Seething, are we? Mind if we finish the trade? Not that I couldn’t watch your face contort for a year or two. Amendsies for that, instead?_

Laurel watches wearily as the daedroth examines his incorporeal nails. He’d managed to trip many of the defensive instincts she'd developed over the past sixty years—no small number, despite her yet-smooth skin—and she wonders what further lessons will be learned from this facilitation. Sure to sting, whatever they are, and she furtively hopes the damage is contained to a mere matter of pride.

Well. It isn’t like she hasn’t prepared a trick of her own. She clears her throat and swallows the last of her bile-tinged phlegm.

“Xivilai. The addendum stated that you would offer Undnar’s location as it is currently known to you, along with the magicka required to ascertain his exact whereabouts. You have fulfilled this trade. In return, I am to release you to wander the surface of Nirn without flesh.”

_〰 Yes, and I agreed, poppet._

Laurel waits despite his impatience. Twice now he has agreed to the terms after she omitted his request to remain unbound, and she allows time to stretch on, stalling for them to snag his attention, giving him a chance to amend. When he looks back, she wants him to see an immaculate display of generosity; that much, at least, is sure to equal whatever blow he has in store for her own pride.

_〰 Poppet._

His disembodied voice dips low in warning, and still she waits, and continues to wait some more, until his malice saturates the air like oil in a wick. When next he snarls, she bows her head.

“Then I will make my exchange.” 

Laurel extends a finger and scrubs out a rune. Free of its block, the outer script winks into action and spirals inward, its carefully painted symbols flowing together like gravatious droplets of ink. They converge on the xivilai and pool, gathering into a portal barely large enough to pass a thimble. The rest of his soul wafts through and settles into him, his Vestige accumulating like smoke until he is capable of remaining visible without the runefire anchoring his form.

The Blade tenses when her flames fizzle out, signifying the xivilai's release. His innate aversion to a daedric presence is wise—one defensive instinct Laurel has lost, rather than gained—but his discomfort lures the reconstituted daedroth like honey lures a fly. He beams at the Altmer, his smile filthy and sincere. “You were delicious, darling. Keep twisting, just like that.” His words, now aloud, ring hollow and reverberant, just like his form. He grins again, enjoying the effect. “Ta, loves!” 

Laurel waits until he reaches the doorway before speaking out. “Might I complete the ritual?”

“Oh! I was in danger just now, wasn’t I?” He seems to be having fun with the vocal trills, trying them on like socks, so she graciously waits for him to answer his own question. “I was about to be zapped back to Oblivion for sure. Bzzt, then yes master, no master, take one in the a—ahem. Chimes, poppet? When one bell rings, blah blah?”

Of course the temple would have latent defenses against unwillingly released daedra, and of course he was right to suspect it. Repeated invasions of Nirn had informed their precautions, and they were more than equal to handling xivilai-kind and lesser. Probably. 

Laurel bows her head with ritualistic formality. “The bells have chimed, and the bargain is complete. Strike the runes; Pinion is released.”

“Pi…” The xivilai takes a step forward in spite of the gesture indicating it’s safe for him to leave. “What did you just call me?” 

She stretches placidly, then lets her posture go. "Pinion?" she repeats, taking her ease. "Please pass the grapes." Across from her, the Blade’s eyes shift back and forth between them. He passes the grapes. 

“Ah," the daedroth remarks. "A strange insult from a strange girl. For a moment, I thought you were _naming_ me, instead of calling me a name.”

Laurel pops a grape into her mouth. It’s not quite ripe, and the tart juice makes her squint. “It would be even stranger if an insult were to become an invocation.” 

“Veeerrrry strange. That's why some people consider names to be binding. Some people, as in, _me_. What are you playing at, poppet?”

Now that he’s named, he can be found anywhere on Nirn, and it won’t matter how far he runs after causing trouble. She’ll be able to summon him and banish him—a fate he has meticulously adapted his behavior to avoid. That he wasn’t more careful with the terms made her suspicious, but she had little choice but to take it as a win.

“Poppet?!”

She winces and pushes aside the sour grapes—another parallel skirted for diplomacy’s sake—then briefly considers urging him to leave with the disappointing fruit. It wouldn’t work, though. They’d sail right through his head. 

“I'm done,” she announces to the world, then crawls to her lover. He blinks, but his arms come around reflexively, well ahead of his surprise. “I would hold your hand, Pinion, but mine will soon be full.” 

Valendiil’s arms wrapped around Laurel of their own accord. He blinked down at her, surprised by the meeting’s abrupt end—not to mention her outrageous public flirting—but soon overcame his butterflies and began nuzzling her hair. Her scent often affected him, but this…

This was… He inhaled again. 

Him getting old. His most recent absence had taken an exponential toll, and the past year had increased the effect from pronounced, to profound. He breathed deeply, allowing her warm floral oils and earthy tang to soak away his agitation. Somehow, someway, contact with her had become the only thing which could span the yawning chasm of his life, the only thing able to reconcile his mismatched desires, bringing him a moment of peace. 

He closed his eyes. 

He could always hear her silences. Near, far, leaden or feather-light, they all seemed tangible to him. Were she any other woman, the intuition might have made him feel special. He might even think it meant destiny, or Mara’s will, or some other fool notion belonging in a much younger head. But he knew better. Everyone heard the Prism Umbra’s silences, not just him. That he could almost understand them was her accomplishment, not his; by quirk or necessity, she wielded them as effectively as words. Sometimes more.

“Am I your empty beacon?” These words made no sense to him, but the way they dropped the barometer did. The silence which followed seemed charged, and his sensitive ears tensed, alert for the crack of lightning. “I am no lighthouse, yet you insist on kindling me in the slightest haze.”

It was all there in what she didn’t say. In her controlled, shallow breath. In her eyes, somehow made sharper with fatigue. In her cheeks, flushed now with anger. They had been waxy pale little more than an hour before, when her vacated body had lain empty for a moment longer than he could bear. 

She felt that he was wrong to interfere, to enact the breathtaking trust she’d given him when teaching him how to re-summon her soul. Her wrathful gaze fell to the amulet, which she’d enchanted and bound for that purpose with her own two hands. He felt a sudden urge to protect it from her, quickly lanced with disgust at the presumption of his own impulse. Yet he had seen enough death—caused enough death—to know how it appears when it approaches. There were shades of difference for everyone, but the dangerously intermittent lurch of her heart had been...

“It was reckless, Lau—“

“Priestess.” 

She must’ve seen the flash of pain which he almost kept from his face. Her jaw clenched and unclenched before she sagged tiredly against his shoulder, her voice growing more sad than angry. A cool finger reached for his freshest scar, still tender from his apathetic self-treatment in the field. “This one is new.” 

_Blade._

He could always hear her silences. How it was unfair of him to call her name when she was acting as his instrument—when living, with purpose, a life she’d dedicated long before he ever stumbled into her crossroads. When he’d been fulfilling his own purpose by requesting she undertake his danger in the first place. When she, herself, only knew him as duty. When she, herself, would never impose herself upon it, even if she did know his name. And she did not. She never asked it of him, sparing him from the urge to protect her, which always clashed with the pain of saying no.

“It was a bleeder, but it wasn't deep.”

He could hear her silence, and he understood it better than words. It's just that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't bring himself to feel that he was wrong. 

Time stretched between them. He reached for her tracing fingers, then laced them within his own. She sidled even nearer and nuzzled his shoulder, seeking affection in equal measure to that which she bestowed. It was a very Laurel-like gesture, and the concession within it brought him low. 

“Were there...complications? From being yanked back.” 

Her fingers tightened. 

“Her soul was fragile, but I reacted quickly.” There was another silence, this time incomplete. He urged for more words, which she only gave reluctantly, after a long pause. “There was a price.” 

“And the cost?”

“I...cannot remember. It could have been one memory, or many.” 

He sighed through his nose. The puff of air stirred her walnut hair, its wavy flyaways flaunting a freedom he’ll never know. He smoothed them cruelly with a tender hand, taking a dark pleasure in forcing them back to their proper place. She leaned into his touch, the movement bringing her face distractingly close.

“Laurel—”

She kissed him. 

He could always hear her silences. He need not tarnish himself with an empty apology, offered simply for peace. Her hand splayed down his belly and trailed until he gasped, the shock of pleasure followed by a tentative brush of her tongue. The strange unguardedness of the unspoken question—asked of his bottom lip, specifically—brought a smile. He reciprocated, only this time more sloppy, and her annoyed amusement confirmed that which he already knew: she would never ask him to change. He suspected his actions had caused her to need the same reassurance, and that it would later bring him shame, but his ability to speak had already dwindled, and it was all he could do to keep from spilling himself into her long-missed hands.

He awoke with his head in her lap. She’d risen while he was sleeping, and instead of waking to see what had disturbed her rest, he apparently clung to her like a child, dreaming about monsters while she stroked his hair. His eyes drifted shut as her cool fingers pressed and smoothed, rhythmically tucking flyaways behind his ears. His heart slowed, his muscles relaxed, and she smiled; he could hear it on her exhaled breath.

He wanted to deserve her, and it always upset her terribly when he tried. Something about it mirrored her own abyss, buried deep within her waking self. Was it born, like his, or cracked? He remembered the attack on the temple that night. He had averted his gaze from her torn clothes and bruised flesh, but from her eyes, there was no turning away. He had attended her as best he could, made himself small and saw to her physical wounds, but as for the others...differentiating between his anguish and another’s had long been impossible. He could no longer discern whose blood was splattered on his face.

Until then, his life had been a series of repeated scenes, scenes like the one he intervened that night, scenes sometimes worse. He always rejected the numbness afterward, instead going after the sea like a madman, determined to empty the abyss with a sharp, pointy spoon. His determination could never be defeated by a matter of scale. 

But it was impossible to do alone.

He rose suddenly to meet her lips, and the force of his kiss carried her to the floor. Her wrists wrapped around his neck, and she murred, encouraging the hand already roaming down her belly. Her chin jerked when his teeth reached her neck, and she squirmed, growing noisy for his impatient touch.

It was impossible to do alone, but not impossible to _act_ alone, and that was something else. The difference hadn’t struck him until he was removing the aggressors’ bodies from her sight, and the learning had cost him his last shred of self. A final blade sheathed in a heart which had fallen far more ill than it would ever grow weary, then breaking in the contrast. Repeated scenes, acting alone, repeated scenes, searching alone, repeated scenes, acting alone, victims spared but never saved, over and over until there was nothing but purpose devoid of reason.

He could endure no longer, but she stopped him from leaving that night. Shaking, she opened her bruised mouth and asked him to stay.

“Did you know?” he breathed into her ear. She moaned as her peaked flesh met his open palm, held ready to catch on her upward writhe. She dragged her tongue down his neck, shamelessly relishing his taste and scent—and, from the sound of it, the way he thrilled against her. 

“Hmm.” An appreciative sound, warmed by her smile. “You’ve always smelled like fir.”

He could never tell if she was affirming him, deflecting him, or simply being strange, but it never mattered. “A fallen one? A sweaty log if we’re being generous.”

“Completely downed,” she confirmed, tracing the muscles of his back. They shifted according to her touch, like a cat’s. “A log is a tree, once fallen, reborn.” A few moments passed before she plucked his palm from her breast, then pressed it to her lips. Something about the intimacy of that gesture always made him shiver, something akin to stepping in from the cold. “A fallen tree becomes shelter to many things, which then call it home.”

Is that how she saw him? A plant whose incremental demise nourishes the world while it turns to dust? 

He liked it. 

She licked his center finger, jolting his focus back where it belonged, then curled her tongue around to draw it inside. He inhaled sharply, smiling back when her cheeks puffed a smug little laugh. Her mouth was hot and wet— _here_ , unlike her ethereal mind—and the contrast nearly buckled him with desire. 

His lips parted sympathetically as he traced and massaged her tongue. She began teasing him by nibbling his fingers, but it seemed to have backfired, judging by the way her hands began roaming the length of his body. He caught them as they slid to provoke for more, then kissed her as he tucked them beside her head. Her eyes narrowed when he pulled away, but she remained still, watching curiously while he sat up to shake the hair from his eyes. He parted her thighs and tugged her hips forward, then hovered between, close enough to feel her warmth, but not enough to touch. Her eyes narrowed again, but he grabbed her wrists before she could tease him further.

“Answer.” He received a frustrated whine, instead, antagonized by the unfulfilled promise of his touch. A reflexive throb lent them a jolt of contact, and she writhed impatiently, baring her teeth. His smirk widened, and so did his girth, but he refused to budge until she spoke.

“I knew, but—“

By the time his mouth covered hers, he was already inside. Her back arched reflexively, exposing her neck while spreading her wide. He tilted into her warmth, lusting for her within and without, for the illusion of permanence, for imminence, insatiable, but not for her—never for her. She was enough. She was more than enough for the likes of him, and she tempered his harrowed need for normalcy with gravity, for family, with being. He saved her life that night, and she had salvaged his soul. 

The first climax came onto him like a storm over the steppes, and he ran out to meet it like an idiot, chasing his pleasure through the driving rain. It was rough. He was being so rough with her, and she accepted all of it—his teeth, his grips, his ragged breaths, his thrusts driving the air from her lungs in sharp little gasps. His tears. The second climax came by surprise, quickly followed upon hers. He called her name, clutching her body while she shook and clenched, then kissed her softly and cradled her head throughout their spasmodic aftershocks, wishing he could see more of her face through the lingering haze. 

The next morning seemed to have dawned completely unaware of the midsummer season. A cool, heavy fog nestled against the land, its stillness whispering more of autumn than of heady vernal life. Swathes of heavy clouds rolled slowly down the mountains, pregnant with dew, while a few rose lightly among them, scooped back into the sky by Kynareth’s idling hands.

Valendiil breathed deep of the dawn. He felt more akin to the lighter clouds than the heavy ones, today—although he dearly hoped Kynareth wouldn’t notice, as he had no desire to be stirred by a god, sexy though her carvings may be—and his enjoyment only increased with the prospects of yesterday’s rain. The creeks would be fresh and swollen, the grass would be full and green, and the roads would be firm, but soft. Unless they hadn’t dried yet—but they had. He could feel it.

He brought a hand-carved whistle to his lips and blew a long, upward note. Thanks to the fog, the cheery sound seemed to travel everywhere and nowhere, but it wasn’t long before he heard the answering clomp of rim-shod hooves. A black form emerged from the mist and turned, heading not quite in the right direction. 

“Hey-ohh!” he called. The long, darkish blob veered toward his voice and resolved into a dew-soaked destrier, trotting happily to meet him. The warhorse was a mutt as far as breeding went, but he was hardy, short-backed, and fast—not very elegant, perhaps, but the perfect blend of purpose and survival. Especially in Skyrim, whose predator-to-prey ratios always seemed to skew in the carnivores’ favor, resulting in chronic hunger and predictably unpredictable aggression.

“Any wolves for breakfast?” he asked, reaching for the horse's muzzle. 

Val had named him Caltrop after the very first time he saw him in action. A wolf—who had apparently mistaken herself for a fish—thought to sneak up on him after he dismounted to take a piss. Val saw her, but truly had to finish, so contented himself with a hand on his sword—his other sword. Most horses would have gotten some distance, but not Caltrop. The idiot wasn't about to let a challenger pass without a fight. He planted his feet, snaked out his head, and snatched the wolf right off her paws. She was a bloody mess by the time he let go, having been tossed into the air more than once. He and Val had worked on “it’s dead already, you can stop now” for a few months after that, bonding all the while, and Val now counted the horse as a partner and closest friend.

He rubbed Caltrop's wooly face, then started brushing him down. He was more attentive than usual, and the lummox leaned into his grooming like a great, shaggy dog. 

“Get off, ya horker,” he complained, pinching his twitching lip. “It’s your fault I’m not eating breakfast right now. You’re more sheep than horse, and—what the shit is this? Literally, shit, _why_? Was it a girl? Was there a girl? Don’t ever trust a girl who makes you want to roll in shit, brother. I’m telling you, it’ll never last.” The horse swished his tail, a little smugly, Val thought. “But then, not all of us want it to, eh?”

Val had him saddled and in the courtyard by the time the sun poked its chin over the ridgeline. A playful breeze toyed with the dew-drenched meadow below, making it glisten, surge, and flow like quicksilver in the grey morning light. The fog had been thinning by the minute, and soon the shrouded valley shone like an emerald in Skyrim’s jagged crown. He waved at one of the temple staff—a custodian of some sort—who seemed to be making his way to the barn. The custodian paused, returned the wave, then changed course. 

He was a Nord by the looks of it, almost as tall as Val, and spotlessly clean. His beard was meticulously trimmed, and his coveralls were free of stains. He nodded once he was close. “You waiting on the high priestess?”

“A fine morning for it,” Val answered sincerely. “How’s work?”

“Barn needs thatchin’.” He peered at Caltrop, then turned back to Val. “She don’t want the wagon?”

Valendiil understood where he was coming from. Laurel had suggested she accompany him to Riverwood, and duty forbade him to decline the offer. She was able to recognize Undnar Silver-Tongue by sight, which admittedly covered for any number of contingencies—false identities among them. They’d make better time doubled-up than on a wagon because of the steep roads, even with Val walking for half the journey. Especially if there was more rain...and there was _always_ more rain.

“Thanks friend, but Caltrop here will have to do.” The man squinted, and Val bit back a smile. “It’s just to Riverwood.”

“Riverwood,” he snorted. “You taking just the one horse? There’s a gentle ‘un in there for them as who need it.”

“I would _like_ —,” Laurel’s voice cut in, then out, with a yawn, and Valendiil turned to greet his sleepy lover. She stopped at the end of the winding ramp which lead from the temple’s main vestibule, then turned to wait for the young acolytes shambling along behind. “Thank you, children. Give my saddlebags to Falrandur, then go to breakfast.”

Falrandur. He’d given her the false name when they first met, and its syllables pelted him like shaved ice whenever she used it—as little as possible after learning it was fake, thank the Nine. But some day she would call his real name, and…

He squashed the thought before it grew too distracting.

The acolytes approached shyly, passed the bags, and raced back inside, their giggles growing madder and madder with each step. One of them clipped Laurel's staff on the way by, and she swayed precariously, barely managing to salvage her balance from a nasty fall.

“Spoilt,” the Nord grunted. She gave a wan smile.

“I promised them each a pressed flower from Riverwood. I should have surprised them, instead…” She took a moment to steady herself, then continued, rubbing her eyes. “I would like to ride Winnow, but it seems that Mattie is sick, and I cannot find my saddle pad.”

The custodian snorted, and Valendiil began to suspect the monosyllables of having multiple meanings. “The groom ain’t sick.” He snorted again. “Hungover. I’ll get your pad.” 

“Thank you, Strom,” Laurel smiled. “How’s work?”

“Barn needs thatchin’.”

“Oh? How long does that normally take?” 

Val watched affectionately as Laurel followed Strom to the barn. They were starting late, of course, but it didn't matter. The sun was warm, the fog was gone, they wouldn't have to ride double—although he had mixed feelings about that—and he would get to travel with someone besides his smelly old horse. He pinched Caltrop's twitchy lip, and the horse nipped back playfully, catching his mood. 

“Youuu cocky menace.” He reached to scratch the horse's neck, fully self-aware of the attempt to hide his idiot smile. It would never work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work still needs a bit of editing to convert it from its original purpose (a writing & thought experiment), to its new purpose (an introduction and worldbuilding for these characters in Gathering Souls). I don't want to keep the characters waiting for their new story, so their backstory will be updated as I have time. ❤ Thanks everyone!


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